The Detective and the Magician
by Shagbark
Summary: The curator thinks Trixie is just a harmless second-rate stage magician. Fetlock Holmes believes she is a master criminal, with the perfect plan to steal the Starry Night right out from under Arch-mage Sparkle's protective spells.
1. My friend, Fetlock Holmes

The Case of the Starry Night

Being an Excerpt from the Reminisces of John H. Watson, M.D., of the Canterlot General Hospital

Chapter 1. My friend, Fetlock Holmes.

To Fetlock Holmes she is always the mare. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. If he once felt something akin to love for her, he at least believes he has since sublimated it into an intellectual admiration. He never speaks of the softer passions save with a gibe and a sneer. For him to admit such an intrusion into his own finely adjusted temperament would be to introduce grit in a sensitive instrument. And yet, to him, there is but one mare.

Holmes' appearance regularly drew attention in Canterlot, that magnet for everything and everypony outlandish or excessive in Equestria. He could hardly pass unnoticed in Fillydelphia. In height he was rather over fifteen hands, and so excessively lean that he seemed considerably taller. By breed he should have been a plow-horse, but one could not imagine him engaged in dactylous labor. Aside from his ectomorphic frame, he had a delicacy of touch in his hooves not exceeded by any unicorn; and something imperious in his eyes as well that at times called to mind the Canterlot high-bred. But he walked with the awkward urgency of a grounded pegasus. He would have stood out even had he not had a completely uniform grey coat, bare of decoration on both flanks. Either by virtue of his mastery of innumerable subjects, of his impatience for pursuing any of them with regularity, or (as I am inclined to believe) through sheer force of stubbornness, Holmes had managed to avoid ever manifesting a cutie mark relegating him to one trade or another. I may give the impression in my missives that detective work was his sole occupation; but in reality it took only a fraction of his time, and served as much as a framework to organize and justify his hobbies and vices, as a profession.

The sight was too much for one blue-maned unicorn, who cocked his head and widened his eyes until I could see the whites. My companion stopped abruptly as we drew up beside him.

"I see you were admiring my mark. That is a sign of distinction." He tapped his forehead with one hoof and smiled conspiratorily. "Only the wise can see it."

The stallion glanced at Holmes, back at Holmes' blank flank, and back at Holmes again. "Ah... remarkable!" he replied.

"Really? What do you think of it?"

"Think... of it?" The poor fellow - it is impossible not to think of anypony who falls into Holmes' hooves when he is in a mischievous mood as a poor fellow, no matter wealth or breeding - twitched his ears back and forth, uncertain whether to venture an opinion, or bolt.

"Yes, yes. The coloring, the geometry. Does it call anything to mind?"

"Not... immediately. Unique, I should say." The unicorn took a harder look. "Yes... unique. Excuse me, I have a train..." He sidled off, then hurried towards the station we had just disembarked from, looking shaken.

"Holmes!" I admonished as we resumed our walk. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"On the contrary, I have rendered him a service. I have taught him that he is not wise."

"But by deception!"

"That is the difference between you and I, Watson. You are a deontologist; I, a consequentialist."

"I haven't a deuce what you're talking about."

Holmes whinnied briefly. "Thank you, Doctor. It is refreshing to converse with somepony who will admit to not knowing something."

"It is fortunate for our friendship, Holmes, that I do not feel the same."

He tossed his head up and pulled back his lips. "Ha! Touché, Watson!"

He is a horse not given to sentimentalities, observing no emotional allegiances beyond those of close friends and, I charitably assume, family. Yet I have never seen him exercise his sharp wit this way on his fellow earth ponies. It is one of the many contradictions of his character. I would not ordinarily mention such small indulgences of his, but I think this one bears on this case in particular.

"I suppose I will allow you your vices, Holmes, if you will allow me mine."

"Did you have any particular vice in mind?"

"Indeed," I said. "I plan to find a pub and a pint, and ply you with drink, if need be, until you tell me why you were so intent on arriving here by six for an exhibit that closed at five."

"Ah! I see where that might be confusing. Do not worry about the exhibit; I have an appointment with the curator at six. But it is essential that we see the magic show at seven. I am afraid your drink must wait."

Holmes has a bitter fascination with magic. He has often bemoaned the difficulty of eliminating the impossible when anypony with a horn can violate the laws of physics on a whim, and expressed the opinion that the world would be a good deal more orderly without such nonsense. Yet he devotes entire days to the study of magical theory, and delights in confounding well-educated unicorns with his superior mastery of the subject. He mostly applies this knowledge in eliminating magic as a possibility from his cases. Nonetheless, I could not see his practical study of the matter carrying over into a desire, or even an ability, to be entertained by a magical _impresario_. I told him as much.

"You are correct, Watson," he replied cheerfully. "We are not going to the show to be entertained. We are going there to witness the theft of the Starry Night."


	2. Three tickets to a crime

Chapter 2. Three tickets to a crime.

Luna's Starry Night, the object of our journey, was on loan from the National Gallery to the Fillydelphia Museum of Art. It had been considered a major work before the Moon Princess' return, and this event made it an even greater object of interest - and of controversy. The quality of the painting was no longer in dispute. It depicts a serene Princess Luna ordering the moon and stars over a small town on a dark night, from a hillside above it. When I say "stars" and "dark night", however, I give a false impression. The night is certainly dark; yet most of the individual brush strokes contributing to it are from a blue-green palette that could be used for the deep sky of an autumn day. The stars each glow like small, far-off suns; and the night sky is full of bright white stripes that somehow add motion rather than light to the scene, painting the wind.

What was still disputed were the questions surrounding its origins. The artist, Vincent Van Neigh, was generally considered a post-impressionist; but he had had many personal associations with the even more-disreputable late lunatics, a group of emotionally-labile individuals who felt that the romantics had not been excessive enough in their art or in their lives. They connected the ancient Hipponian gods Apollo and Dionysius with Celestia and Luna. Nightmare Moon, they said, was no aberration, but represented Luna's true nature as the mad creative spirit of the artist; while Celestia was the rational interpreter and imposer of order, always refining, always restraining, and always destroying something in the process. Equestria's art lacked passion, they said, since the exile of Nightmare Moon. It was said that they prayed for her inspiration, and for her return. All of the few paintings of Luna in the century before her return could be traced to their influence. The Starry Night was the only one of these that had risen above the level of a statement in artistic theory, to that of Art. It was rumored that the painting was a favorite of Luna herself, though as usual, the Sisters said nothing publicly one way or the other.

Van Neigh himself, more intensely spiritual than political, never called for Luna's return. But he did eventually go mad, and shot himself in a field not long after cutting off his own ear as a gift for, appropriately enough, a "mare of the night". These events contributed to the suspicion that he was a closet lunatic. There were many who thus held that the painting portrayed a wicked distortion of the Night Princess, and so was an abomination. There were others, not so vocal nowadays, who held that the painting portrayed the true nature of the Night Princess, and so was an abomination. While no curator likes to contemplate the theft of a painting, all were conscious that, if it were to arrive on the black market, there would be as many buyers who wished to destroy it as to collect it. The museum had a tip that an attempt would be made on the painting in Fillydelphia, and, in addition to notifying the local police, had engaged Holmes to look into the matter.

We arrived shortly at the museum, which was closed; and were let in by a guard at the staff entrance, who was expecting us. We stood in a long, tall hallway just inside the vestibule, replete with fountains, Hipponian statuary, and a bit of greenery; and waited for the head curator, a Mr. F. When he arrived, he proved to be a rotund black unicorn with enormous round spectacles and a nervous energy in his speech and action. His cutie-mark, oddly, was a pair of scales.

"Private detectives," he muttered, as if to himself. "Not sure what I think of that. Highly recommended, though. And it is convenient that you have no legal authority whatsoever." He did not seem to notice Holmes' bare flank.

"We aim to please," Holmes said with an ingratiating smile. "Although my companion, Doctor Watson, is not a detective."

"Art historian?" Mr. F. asked, leaning closer to inspect me.

"I am a doctor of medicine," I replied.

Seeing the curator's puzzled reaction, Holmes added, "His chief qualification in this matter is that he is the only pony in Equestria with the patience to tolerate me for long intervals. Come, sir, the painting."

Mr. F. led us out the other end of the entrance hall, and through a series of galleries, all with plain walls painted a single color chosen so as to best offset the paintings on display in that room. We were slowed by Holmes' frequent pauses and exclamations of delight in front of one painting or another, none of which I recognized, but which the curator, judging by the proud smile he flashed in response, approved of. We were also slowed because the curator kept bumping into the stanchions set up to direct patrons this way or that, knocking them over to a tremendous clatter as their brass heads bounced off the marble floor. After the third such occasion, I said, "I fear your opthamologist has provided you the wrong prescription, sir."

"On the contrary," Holmes said, before the curator could respond. "He is most skilled to do such unusual custom work. I am glad he could prevent your astigmatism from interfering with your career."

"She," the curator replied, slightly flustered. "Yes. Tried several before I found one who could produce lenses that focused uniformly at two feet, four inches. Optimal distance for studying a painting. Here we are."

We had arrived in a gallery at the very end of the east wing, with several lesser Van Neighs on the left and right walls, as well as signs giving details of his life and the inevitable story of the ear. The painting itself was on the far wall, protected from accidental contact by a more solid traffic barrier which even Mr. F. could not easily knock down.

"Really ought to have it behind glass," Mr. F. said guiltily, "but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

I could see why. Luna's Starry Night, seen in person, is a conclusive argument for the value of museums even in an age of color prints. I had not been overly impressed by the reproductions I had seen of it, and my low expectations no doubt made the thing itself even more stunning. It was painted - constructed, I should say - from layer upon layer of thick oil-paint brush-strokes, so that it was scarcely a painting at all, but a three-dimensional sculpture, with a glossy shine that prints completely fail to capture, and which produced bright reflective lines that danced madly if one so much as drew breath as one stood before it. It was hard to dispell the illusion of movement, nor did I want to.

"Will there be a guard in this room tonight," Holmes inquired, "between the hours of, oh, seven and eight?"

Mr. F. pursed his lips. "We have three night guards; and at least twenty-three other paintings on a par with the Starry Night. If you have this alleged thief-to-be's timetable, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you could provide a name and address as well?"

"I have hopes, Mr. F; but at present it would be premature. If my conjectures are right, a guard would be of little use in any case, other than to establish the time of theft. I expect magic will be involved."

Mr. F. whinnied a bit derisively. "Then you are off the mark, Mr. Holmes. The entire east wing of the museum is enclosed in a drag field cast by the Arch-mage herself."

"Lately?" Holmes asked.

Mr. F. frowned. "No. Two years ago. Does it matter?"

"Possibly," Holmes said. "Two years is plenty of time for a clever pony to probe and test it. I assume that our hypothetical thief has a more accurate estimation of both its strengths and her abilities than do I. Therefore, I defer to her judgement that it will not suffice, as indicated by her presence here tonight." The curator whirled around in alarm to look behind him, knocking over another stanchion with a clang. "In Fillydelphia," Holmes clarified. "I assume one of your guards is a unicorn, trained to monitor any unexpected magical fields?"

"Of course," Mr. F. replied.

Holmes pulled a sheet of paper from his saddlebag with his teeth, and held it out to the curator, who took it up in a glow of darkly-shaded magic.

"And these magical fields are expected?" Holmes asked.

Mr. F. held the paper out in front of him, no doubt at a distance of two feet four inches, and studied it. "Yes," he nodded after a moment. "Signed the permit myself. Did her first show last night. A minor entertainer, Mr. Holmes, nothing more."

"She seems to disagree," Holmes said. "I intend to observe in any case. At the worst, she should at least provide a pleasurable diversion. Would you care to join Dr. Watson and myself? It is nearly seven, and the cafe is only a few steps away."

Mr. F. seemed at first to fear this invitation might represent some insult to his dignity. But Holmes' friendly and sincere smile - a sincerity I have seen him practice in the mirror many times - won him over, and he gave a boyish grin and acceded with a nod.

I inspected the paper which the curator was still suspending in the air. It was a black-and-white flyer for an event that evening in the museum's adjoining cafe, printed entirely in capitals, with a drawing in the center of a unicorn with a bad cowlick, a tall, pointy wizard's hat that could have been stolen from the props of a second-rate drama troupe, and a smirk that was more contemptuous than inviting. It read,

WATCH IN AWE!

WATCH AND BE AMAZED!

WITNESS THE AMAZING MAGIC OF

THE GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE

TWO NIGHTS ONLY

THURSDAY AND FRIDAY

FILLYDELPHIA ART MUSEUM CAFE

7PM


	3. An unlikely suspect

The museum cafe, which had a separate entrance onto the street, did not appear a likely venue for either a criminal mastermind or a great magician. It was simply decorated, with white walls, small black ironwork tables of the irritating sort having four legs only three of which touched the ground at any given time, and a large window overlooking part of the museum's exterior fountain. The view was fading and the window turning reflective instead as the twilight deepened. An area in front of the window had been cleared of tables for the performance. The ticket receipts from the several dozen patrons present could scarcely have covered Trixie's travel expenses. The Great and Powerful Trixie was presumably behind some tacked-up white bedsheets that partitioned off the far end of the cafe to serve as a dressing room.

Holmes had put on a fast and expedient disguise, consisting of glasses and a felt bowler hat from his saddlebag, and the wide-eyed expression of an eager and easily-impressed tourist. He purchased a "Fillydelphia Cheese Cupcake" whose key ingredient I could smell from several feet away, and which I hope he chose only for the sake of his disguise. I chose a root beer and a simple farmer's sandwich of carrots and cucumbers. Holmes chose a table in the front row, but off to one side, giving us a clear view but not making us a focus of attention. Mr. F. excused himself to engage in some argument with the cafe manager over a cloud of steam he had seen emanating from the kitchen, which he appeared to think was somehow a threat to the paintings upstairs.

"Holmes," I said, "I will try not to enjoy it, but I think you are going to be made a fool of. This is the sort of magic show one would see at a filly's birthday party."

"Your lack of faith wounds me, Watson. But in that case I suggest you relax and enjoy the show."

"Why do you believe," I pressed, "that this second-rate entertainer capable of bypassing security installed by the arch-mage and stealing a famous painting under the noses of dozens of ponies?"

"Because she is a second-rate entertainer, but a first-rate magician, and conscious of it. A second-rate magician could not do it; a successful entertainer would not. Bitterness and envy drive the unappreciated genius to crime, not for profit, but for vindication. And because, Watson, if I were to steal the Starry Night, this is how I would do it. She has license to stand nearly directly underneath it for an entire hour, employing powerful magical energies, without an alarm being raised. Her innocuous first show has lulled them into concluding, illogically, that the second will be equally innocent. Her wit and audacity are remarkable." His face glowed briefly with admiration. After all these years, I can count precisely the number of times I have seen this happen.

It always chilled me when Holmes hypothesized about himself as a criminal. I took a sip from my root beer and tried to change the subject. "I sense something more, Holmes. You are emotionally involved. Yes, even you have emotions. I know the signs. Your ear has twitched at least twice since we entered, which for you is practially spasmodic."

Holmes appeared as if he were about to dismiss this with a rejoinder; but paused, and instead brought his head close to mine, letting his cheery expression drop. "What would you say is the ratio of earth ponies to unicorns in Canterlot, Watson?"

I thought for a moment, and replied, "Perhaps one in five. It is difficult to know. They are usually behind the scenes."

"Indeed they are," Holmes said. "And what, among our criminal cases in Canterlot, has been the ratio?"

I frowned. "Closer to two to one."

"Does that not strike you as odd, Watson? Wings, or a bit of magic, make crime so much easier. Why should earth ponies attempt it at all, let alone be drawn to it at a rate of ten to one over unicorns?"

"Well," I said, "Canterlot is not exactly agricultural. Employment there for strong backs is limited."

His eyes turned hard. "That is no excuse. Neither you nor I have strong backs, and we have done quite well."

"Perhaps we would not have," I said, "if we had strong backs."

"Perhaps," Holmes conceded. "But I believe the underlying causes are more systemic." He pulled his head back, a bitter look now in his eyes. "Regardless," he said slowly, "crime is a terrible profession. The work is unsteady, the risks are high, the payoffs usually disappointing. It is the dregs, the leavings, the last resort. It is, in a word, _ours_, Watson." He looked around him, and I became conscious that we were nearly the only earth ponies in the cafe.

"Holmes," I said, "you seem to be suggesting that for a unicorn to steal a painting would be to put some honest earth pony out of work."

He cast his eyes down. "Everything is so easy for them, Watson. And for her, with her skill and power, crime is child's play." He looked up and met my eyes with a penetrating gaze. "But I promise you this: She will not find it so easy this time."

I looked away and sipped my drink uneasily, conscious again that there were depths to my friend I had not yet sounded. I had the odd sensation of having fallen into a parallel universe where some chance circumstance had made him something less than what he ought to be. Mr. F. joined us at the table, and his good-natured smile was a relief. The cafe manager dimmed the lights away from the impromptu stage, a hoof parted one of the partitioning sheets from inside, and we had our first view of the Great and Powerful Trixie.


End file.
